A Country's Children
by Julie Manson
Summary: Catherine Jones seems like a normal everyday girl, but behind the smile, she's hiding something. She's a state. Born September 9, 1850, she's grown into a respectable young woman, but years of hardship and secrets have taken their toll. She needs someone to talk to; maybe someone like her?
1. Prologue

Prologue

"_It is not more surprising to be born twice than once; everything in nature is resurrection._" – Voltaire

* * *

England sighed for what seemed like the thousandth time, "Please sit down America, you're stressing everyone out. The baby's coming no matter what; so all we can do is wait."

"I can't wait!" America cried, catching the attention of everyone in the room, "My thirty-first state is being born right now as we speak!"

He continued his pacing, a grin spread across his face, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Remember America," England cautioned, finally speaking up, "this is still someone else's house and that is still someone else's wife."

"Don't kill my buzz, old man!" the younger country objects, but still grins on, "I wonder if it'll be a boy or a girl."

The older country sighs, "After thirty of your so-called 'children,' I didn't expect you to be so bouncy at the birth."

America turns to glare at England, but stops when he notices what everyone's attention is now on – a little blue bundle held in the nurse's arms.

"A girl," America breathed.

* * *

Author's Note: I read somewhere that prior to 1920, people used blue for girls and pink for boys, since blue is a much "softer" color than pink. Also, I know this is short, but it is just meant to be a prologue.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

"_Fight your fears and you'll be in battle forever. Face your fears and you'll be free forever._" – Lukas Jonkman

* * *

This is where my story starts – birth. I'll admit it's not much of a start; I didn't come out like some sort of heroic figure with some sort of destiny. I came into this world like most infants. Squalling, nearly blind, and as red as a lobster, but I can tell you, I _was_ different. I mean, not many people can say they were fully aware at the day of their birth. Of course, even with the mindset of a fully grown adult, I was held back by the limitations of my new body.

I couldn't talk, not even babble yet, and I certainly couldn't walk. My voice, legs, _and_ eyes were useless but I could think at least. I would end up finding myself thinking about everything that came my way – my birth mother mostly. However, the one voice I looked forward to hearing the most was my father, America, but I digress.

* * *

Honestly, my first six months went by in a colorful blur. Hitting milestone after milestone and growing as swiftly as my diapers needed changing _could_ exhaust someone especially when the only thing to look forward to was _mealtime_. So, I slept a great deal. The dreams going through my head were mostly colors and shapes despite memories of a past life. Moments I was awake were short the first few months, but they were memorable. For example, I was constantly visited by the much older countries and states. Simply because of my previous opinions, America and New York were my favorite companions growing up.

Once I could walk, however, a whole new world opened up to me, especially since I mastered opening doors soon after that. Then came and went my first birthday. It was a rather big celebration, but different than birthdays I was used to. Probably because I had lived when so many infants perished in their first year. Infant mortality was a big deal in 1850 – 216.8 per 1,000. Certainly America wasn't _as_ worried – having had experience with his other states. However, my birth mother, where I was her first living child, hadn't been so sure.

* * *

When I was four, things changed dramatically for me and all it took was one thing – we moved. Doesn't sound so bad, does it? Well, for me, it was worse than what my sheltered life had foreseen for me.

You see, the capital was no longer the comfortable city of San Jose – in 1854 it changed to Sacramento. A total of 89 miles we needed to transgress and one of us was deathly ill. Reason? Well, starting when I was three, my mother's husband contracted a disease that had yet to be identified and it quickly became severe.

* * *

"Mama, what's wong wit father?" I asked my mother as I watched her do the dishes.

You see, despite not being related by blood, I was still expected to call him "father." Because of this, I called America "papa."

"He has a cold, liebling," I remember her saying.

I cocked my head to the side, confused.

"What's a 'cold,' mutti?" I asked her.

Unfortunately, I never got an answer. I was just scolded for being "too curious" and sent on my way.

* * *

Anyway, about half way through the trip, he died. His death hit my mother hard, and in response to her misery, it affected me strongly as well. My mother, unfortunately, will end up following her husband within the next two years. Even now, I feel it was due to heartbreak.

After my mother died, America came to see me more often, but that eventually slowed down until he stopped coming altogether. I was disappointed, but I had other things on my mind.


End file.
